


Rebel, Rebel (your face is a mess)

by TheSingerThatYouWanted (orphan_account)



Category: Sweet (2000)
Genre: David Bowie - Freeform, Fluff, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i'm sorry i honestly have no idea what happened here, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheSingerThatYouWanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes by every day at 1:30, and they always stick to the script. Those are the facts.<br/>Except, just this once, they aren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebel, Rebel (your face is a mess)

**Author's Note:**

> This one ran away from me a bit, and to be honest I don't quite know what happened. Still. Um. Enjoy?  
> As usual, I own none of the characters mentioned here. Or the people. Or the music. You get the picture.

1.27pm. Stitch checked his watch for what had to be the sixth or seventh time, but the minutes refused to go by any faster. He'd already used up all of his usual distractions- counting up the stall's meagre profits, sorting the vinyl records into alphabetical order, and so on- and now there was nothing left for him to do except admit that he was waiting for someone to appear. The only problem was that there was no power on earth that could get him to do so. At least, not out loud. In his head he was more than aware of the fact.  
1:28. He looked hopefully up and down the street a few times, catching the eye of several passers-by as he did so. None of them approached the stall. They never did. Nobody except teenage girls and art students ever paid his stall the slightest bit of attention, often regarding him with a kind of vague disdain. Stitch was used to that, but it still annoyed him. He wanted to have a career like theirs- even working part time in a proper record store would be an improvement on standing out in the cold all day, and he'd probably make more money doing it- but they stubbornly refused to give him the time of day and he was barely making enough money to get by. It was alright, though. He knew that his big break was just around the corner. It had to be.  
The next obsessive glance at his watch told him that it was 1:31, and by now the street was filling up fast. It was nearly impossible for Stitch to pick out individual faces in the crowd. He tried to be subtle but it was taking all of his self-control not to crane his neck for a better view. He didn't know when or why seeing a total stranger had become so important to him, but apparently it had. For an irrational moment he thought he might have missed him, but that was impossible. Stitch hadn't left the stall for at least the past hour, there was no way the guy could have come over without Stitch knowing about it. But he should have been there by now. Every day he came before half past one, without fail, so where was he?  
Suddenly Stitch spotted him through a gap in the crowd, pushing his way awkwardly through a small crowd of men in suits, his cheery grin never faltering. A suit elbowed him sharply in the ribs, yet it was the young man who apologised, sending the businessman on his way with a nod and a smile. It was almost worrying how cheerful he was. A broad smile threatened to break out on Stitch's face as he watched him approach, and he forced himself to hide it. There was no point letting the younger man know that he was interested. For one thing, he was pretty sure it would freak him out. There was nothing about the situation that didn't practically scream 'creep'. What would he even say? "Oh, hi. I've barely ever spoken to you, and thinking about it I don't even know your name, but would you consider coming back to my place so I can push you up against a wall and kiss you before fucking you senseless? Also, I think you're cute when you laugh."  
Even in his head he was aware it was a less than perfect chat-up line, and knowing his track record he'd probably screw it up even more out loud. Besides, even if the man didn't end up running for the hills, there was no way he'd say yes. Stitch had to settle for biting his tongue and praying for even the tenuous friendship that was, realistically, all he could hope for.  
"Hey," he said, offering a cautious smile when he was finally within earshot. The stranger- though it felt a little odd to still be calling him that, given how often they'd seen each other- grinned, running a hand absently through his brown hair.  
"Hey," he replied, starting to flick through the albums. It always started this way, a sort of ritual for both of them. Stitch knew exactly how it went, too.  
"Looking for anything in particular?" he asked casually. He’d often been tempted to stray from the script, but never did. Today was no different. The younger man- Stitch guessed he was about 23, making him a few years Stitch's junior- looked up at him from beneath his long fringe.  
"Nah," he said with a smile and a small shake of his head. "Just browsing."  
Just browsing. He was always just browsing. Every day for the last two months he'd come by the stall- presumably while on his lunch break- and Stitch didn't think he'd bought a single record. Weirdly, he didn't mind. It was nice to have somebody else at the stall, even if it was only for a little while, and having one customer sometimes enticed others over. So Stitch nodded, leaving the younger man to look slowly through the boxes and boxes of vinyl, and he watched. It felt almost unclean, like staring at the stall's one and only customer was somehow invasive, but he couldn't help it. The young man was fascinating.  
His hair was longer than any man's Stitch had seen, and more carefully styled than most girls'. Beneath his fringe were shining blue eyes which always seemed to be laughing at some joke that the rest of the world was a little slow in understanding. His teeth were slightly crooked but when he flashed his dazzling smile that didn't matter. It was as though he had been built as a container for sunshine, made out of a hundred opposing ideas of beauty. None of the pieces quite fit together, leaving him all sharp angles and crooked edges, but through the cracks shone even more light. He shouldn’t have been beautiful, but he was.  
His clothes only served to underline the idea that he hadn't been built on earth. Stitch would have expected him to wear tight-fitting clothes, all bright colours to match his smile, but the younger man almost always dressed in the same crumpled jeans and battered old parka. Stitch was hardly a fashion expert, but he simply couldn't understand it. He didn’t want to sound like some creepy guy on the street, and would probably have earned a few choice words if he’d voiced his thoughts aloud, but he’d have thought someone like the stranger would be the type to show off his body. God knows Stitch would be willing to look. But instead he hid behind loose, almost shapeless clothes.  
After about ten minutes of silence, the only sound the soft thud of the records piling up on top of each other, the younger man nodded to him. It was a simple gesture, but it held a lot of meaning. The nod spoke of familiarity, of some kind of understanding, but he never made a move to push closer. This was enough, it seemed to say. Perhaps not all he wanted- not all either of them wanted- but it was without risk, and so it was enough. Stitch swallowed and nodded back, feeling the familiar 'See you tomorrow?' rise in his throat but not quite reaching his lips, the same as always. The stranger smiled, his whole face lighting up in a way that Stitch found almost unbearably endearing. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone, swept away in the crowd of people on their way back to dull jobs in grey buildings, leaving Stitch wondering just how someone so dazzling could cope in that sort of place.  
~*~  
It took Stitch four cups of coffee just to get to the stall the next morning. He had been up all night, unable to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the memory of the customer’s smile drifted into his mind. He was no stranger to these thoughts, but for some reason they were growing more persistent every day. The coffee had seemed like the only solution. By the time 1:30 finally rolled around he was, if not awake, certainly conscious. The caffeine had done wonders for his confidence, too. Stitch’s mind was made up. When the stranger showed up again, he was going to ask him his name. It was a small step, certainly, but names led to friendships and friendships to time spent together, and with time… well, Stitch was prepared to wait and see where that route took them. If nothing else, he thought it might help if his fantasies had a name.  
When the usual rush of businessmen spilled onto the street, Stitch was wired. His fingers tapped an incessant, fast-paced rhythm against his thigh, slightly off the beat of the music he had playing in the background. He cast around for the customer, but there was nothing. No sign of him anywhere on the street. Stitch’s heart began to beat just a little faster, nerves overtaking conscious thought for a few seconds before his brain managed to bring things back under control.  
Maybe he was just running late. Yes, that made sense; after all, he must have a job. It stood to reason that he could have work to be catching up on before going for lunch.  
Stitch took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before snapping them open, afraid he wouldn’t notice the customer approaching. Shame swirled in his stomach for a second. This wasn’t like him at all. Okay, so his life wasn’t quite as together as he’d have liked it to be, but he liked to think he was calm and collected. He certainly wasn’t the type of person to get all nervous over the thought of talking to someone pretty. So, with a tremendous effort, Stitch pushed the worries aside and set about rearranging the Beatles’ entire discography into chronological order instead of alphabetical.  
By 2pm Stitch was worried. The lunchtime rush was slowing, and there was still no sign of the young man. There didn’t seem to be much point in waiting around any longer. Given that nobody ever came near his stall anyway he figured it was probably okay for him to go for a walk. It would clear his head, and with a bit of luck he’d find somewhere that sold half-decent coffee rather than the instant muck he’d been more or less surviving on all morning. He moved the vinyl-filled boxes away and stuck up a small cardboard sign informing people that the stall was closed. Then he was off.  
Much as he liked to pretend otherwise, Stitch actually really liked London. He liked the way it wasn’t one place, but rather a whole collection of different cultures and communities and identities piled untidily together. It made life more interesting, though not necessarily always enjoyable. As cities went, it worked. Everyone walked with a purpose, a destination firmly in mind even if that destination was nowhere in particular. The city bred its own kind of focused aimlessness.  
With trademark unfocused aimlessness, his mind full of these half-formed worries and unusually philosophical thoughts about the city which he would almost certainly forget by the next morning, Stitch almost walked straight into the back of a teenager in a tracksuit. He stumbled back, apologising through gritted teeth, but the stranger was having none of it.  
“What the fuck are you on, mate?” said the teen, glaring. Stitch shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to avoid confrontation.  
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Wasn’t looking where I was going. If you’ll just-”  
He made to move past, but the teenager stopped him again. A malicious grin was plastered across his face, lips curling upwards in a sneer.  
“Want us to do the same to you?” he asked, laughing cruelly and pointing to several other teens who Stich hadn’t noticed. They were huddled around something on the ground, firing feet and fists into it. No, not something. Stitch squinted. A person.  
His customer.  
The younger man looked so small, lying curled up on the asphalt. Blood was smeared across his face and clothes. Every time one of his attackers landed a blow he let out a tiny, desperate whimper, which only seemed to amuse and encourage them even more.  
“Fuckin’ faggot,” jeered one, and his friends laughed. One of them- Stitch assumed him to be the ringleader- pressed a foot to the young man’s chest and leaned over him.  
“You hear that, slut?” he said, grinning. “You’re just a pathetic, ugly faggot. Should’ve killed you before you were born.”  
He pressed down hard, driving the air from the young man’s lungs, and spat on his face before turning away. There was no response from the figure on the ground except for a single, quiet sob.  
Rage, blistering hot and terrifying even Stitch with its intensity, surged through his veins. He wanted to lash out, to chase the teens away, but the tiny part of his brain that was still capable of rational thought told him quite firmly that doing anything at that point would be a very bad idea. Instead he just balled his hands into fists so tight that his fingernails carved red crescents in his palms and waited.  
After what felt like an eternity the ringleader beckoned for his lackeys to come over, and slowly they walked away, leaving their victim crumpled on the cold ground. Laughter echoed back from the group, serving only to make Stitch angrier. He’d heard people talk like that before, he’d been on the receiving end of it more than once, but he’d never seen anything this bad before. As soon as they were out of sight he practically sprinted over to the young man on the ground.  
An involuntary gasp tore from his lips as he approached, a kind of sympathetic hiss that came with the realisation of how much damage the teens had inflicted. The young man had a split lip and a bloodied nose at the very least. There was so much blood smeared over his face that he could have had a hundred other injuries that Stitch simply couldn’t see.  
“Hey,” he said quietly, kneeling down. “Can you still see okay?”  
It wasn’t exactly a great start to the diagnosis, but he felt like he had to do something to make sure the young man was okay. He blinked a few times before nodding hesitantly.  
“How many fingers?” asked Stitch, holding up a hand. The smaller man swallowed a couple of times before answering, his words remarkably clear. Stitch had been half expecting him to slur.  
“Three,” he said quietly. Stitch nodded slowly.  
“What’s your name? Can you tell me what month it is?”  
“Pete,” replied the young man, shifting slightly with a pained grimace. “Pete Sweet. An’ it’s the middle of February.”  
“Alright. I’m, uh, I’m Stitch.”  
“Record Store Stitch,” said Pete with a crooked smile, sniffing then coughing as another drop of blood fell from his nose. Something in Stitch’s chest cried out at the sight, but he forced a smile onto his face.  
“Yeah, that’s me. Do you want me to call the police or something?” he asked. Pete shook his head emphatically.  
“No, they won’t do anything. I just- actually, could you lend me the bus fare home?”  
He looked shaky but determined. Stitch had seen the look before and knew how dangerous it could be. It was the look you got in the eyes of someone who knows they’ll get knocked down again, who’s on the verge of giving in, but who is just too stubborn to back down. In that moment he was certain that there was no way he could let Pete go off alone.  
“You’re not going home until you’ve wiped some of that blood off your face,” he said out loud. “None of the buses will take you looking like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a boxing kangaroo.”  
Pete laughed, but it was a hollow sound and Stitch could see tears building behind his blue eyes as the numbness and adrenaline wore off. Everything was beginning to hurt. Pete needed to get somewhere he could sit down and clean up, preferably while drinking a cup of really sugary tea. Stitch lived too far away for his tiny flat to be a real option, but there was a tiny room behind the stall that he could use.  
“Can you walk?” he asked. Pete nodded, waving away Stitch’s hands and trying to lever himself upright. A grimace of pain flashed across his sharp features, but he persevered until he was standing upright on his own two feet. He took a step forward and swayed slightly, but Stitch caught his arm to steady him.  
“Maybe be careful until we sit down?” said Stitch with forced cheeriness. Pete swallowed nervously, stumbling and clutching at the taller man’s arm.  
“Y- yeah.”  
As they walked back towards the stall, one of Stitch’s arms wrapped around Pete’s waist to support him, he was struck by how light the smaller man was. He was thin, almost painfully so, and wiry muscles ran taut under his skin. Under any other circumstances he would have been overjoyed to be pressed so close to the younger man’s body, but all he could think about was how things might have ended if he hadn’t decided to go for that walk. The mental image was overwhelming and suddenly he was doubled over, retching into the gutter. Pete watched him with concern, leaning on a lamppost for support.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and somehow that simple phrase almost undid Stitch. Tears prickled behind his eyes.  
“Don’t apologise,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just don’t. ‘S not your fault.”  
Pete shook his head, trying to pull away, but Stitch was insistent.  
“I should go, I don’t want to trouble you-”  
“It’s no trouble. Please, just have a cup of tea of something until we can get you cleaned up.”  
Pete went very quiet for a moment. Stitch was suddenly terrified that he was coming across as pushy, as though he was forcing Pete to do something he didn’t want to, but then he realised something that jolted him even more. The younger man was crying.  
“Um. Pete?” he said quietly, moving closer. “Look, I’m just trying to-”  
Pete slung an arm over Stitch’s shoulders before he had time to finish. The young man looked determined, blinking furiously through the tears trickling down his cheeks.  
“It’s this way, right?” he said carefully.  
They made their way back to the stall as quickly as Pete could manage, stopping a couple of times on the way. By the time they got to the right street there was almost no colour left in Pete’s cheeks, and he was stumbling more frequently.   
When they arrived Pete shrugged off his coat, revealing a nondescript striped shirt underneath. Stitch helped him to a stool in the corner and put the kettle on in one fluid movement. His hands were shaking less now. Okay, so he had no idea how to help his- what? Acquaintance? Friend?- but he knew how to make tea. As the ancient kettle gurgled and bubbled menacingly in the background Stitch rifled through the pile of miscellaneous nonsense in the corner until he found a packet of tissues and an old bottle of water. Hardly medical-grade supplies, but they would have to do.  
Coughing a little shyly to get the smaller man’s attention, Stitch held out the tissues to Pete. He gazed back with those bright blue eyes, shining even through the film of tears, and Stitch hurried to explain.  
“For your- I mean, it’s not perfect, I know, but you’ve got to get those cuts cleaned up.”  
Understanding dawned, and Pete reached cautiously up to his lip, hissing in pain as his fingers probed the swollen flesh. Stitch hesitated, unsure if he was overstepping a boundary, before moving forwards slightly.  
“Do you want me to try?” he asked.  
“No, I’ll be- I’ll be fine.”   
Pete’s voice was brittle, like the slightest touch could shatter him into fragments. Stitch felt his chest constrict in sympathy. He fumbled as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle for him, and was about to pour some of the liquid onto the tissues in his hand when he heard the familiar click of the kettle. Grateful for the distraction- his nerves had begun to nip at his heels again, even the thought of being in such close proximity to Pete sending shivers running through him- Stitch pressed the bottle into Pete’s hands and muttered an apology, moving over to the kettle. Somehow he managed to find two mugs and make the teas without spilling boiling water all over himself, but he whole time he worked he was aware of Pete’s eyes on him. He could hear occasional grunts and gasps, presumably due to the pain of cleaning up his injuries, but in a dark corner of Stitch’s mind they became something else entirely and sent a shudder down his spine.  
God, how long had it been? Things must have been even worse than Stitch had realised, given that he was practically getting hard just making drinks for the smaller man. He would never do anything, not when Pete was so vulnerable, but he was definitely going to have to take several cold showers that night. And if, maybe, things moved further than this one day… well, suffice to say he had some nipple clamps kicking about somewhere that would definitely be getting an airing.  
Taking a deep breath, forcing all thought of sex toys firmly to the back of his mind, Stitch turned and handed Pete a chipped mug of extremely sugary tea. The younger man accepted it eagerly, long fingers wrapping tightly around the mug as he brought it to his lips. His eyes flickered shut as he drank, humming vaguely around the mug. His lips were surprisingly pink, and Stitch wondered absently if the younger man was wearing lip gloss. That thought sent a jolt through him, and he felt warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. If he didn’t take care of things soon he was going to have a whole lot of explaining to do.  
“I’ll, uh, I’ll just be a minute,” he muttered quickly, moving towards the door. Stitch looked anxiously at him, lips slightly parted, blue eyes pleading, and fuck, that wasn’t helping at all. With the blood cleaned away he was even more attractive than Stitch remembered him to be. Pete held eye contact for a few more seconds, running the pointed tip of his tongue across his lips, and Stitch had to take a few deep breaths before he could trust himself to answer.  
“I need the loo,” he explained, gesturing over his shoulder. “There’s a toilet on the corner… I’ll not be long.”  
He all but fled from the stall, hurrying towards the public toilets. He could practically feel Pete’s eyes on him following him out, and he was grateful for the lack of people on the street. Stitch palmed roughly at himself through his jeans as he opened the door and bolted himself into a cubicle, fighting hard to suppress his moans. There was something so seedy about it, wanking over a man he barely knew in a public toilet, but Stitch didn’t quite have it in him to care. He hadn’t been turned on like this in months. The buckle of his belt posed more of a problem than usual, but before long he had his trousers and pants around his knees and was moaning against the hand he had clamped over his mouth.  
What would Pete be like in bed? Inexperienced yet enthusiastic, probably, and more than willing to give to his partner. Stitch began to stroke himself faster, letting the fantasies take over. He imagined long hair flopping across Pete’s eyes as he looked up from where he was kneeling, Stitch’s cock in his mouth and one hand down the front of his own trousers. Every time he paused Stitch would grab a handful of that tantalisingly long hair, tugging him closer and making the younger man groan in desperate, overwhelming need for more. And then, when Stitch had finished, he would repay the favour. With the imaginary Pete’s moans mingling with his own very real ones, Stitch came hard, crying out against his palm.  
Exhausted, he sagged against the cold wall of the cubicle and tried to get his breathing back under control. Guilt flooded him, making him feel a little sick. It felt like he’d betrayed Pete’s trust, like he’d broken some kind of cardinal rule of humanity. He probably had. It was hard to tell; with the waves of shame crashing into his post-orgasmic high he could barely think straight. He realised he’d probably already been away for too long, though, and hurriedly cleaned himself up before hurrying back to the stall.  
Pete was still there, looking through a stack of albums that were nestled away on a low table at the back of the stall. He started guiltily when Stitch entered, shooting him an apologetic glance and holding his hands up in a placating gesture.  
“I’m not stealing anything,” he said quickly. “I just saw these, and I was taking a look. Honest, I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”  
Stitch nodded, smiling at him.  
“It’s alright, I believe you.”  
He was about to say something else, but paused when he caught sight of a familiar record sleeve poking out from the very bottom of the pile. An idea began to form at the back of his mind and he moved over to stand beside the younger man. Pete didn’t seem perturbed by the intrusion, relaxing against him and continuing to search through the pile. Stitch was glad he’d made the detour to the toilets, despite his guilt. If he hadn’t then things would have become even more awkward very quickly. As it was, he was almost hyperaware of the warmth of Pete’s body pressed against his chest, all sharp edges but somehow not uncomfortable. Cautiously he leaned into the contact, reaching out to pick up the record he’d noticed earlier.  
“What’s that?” asked Pete curiously, looking up at him. The younger man was only a couple of inches away, and Stitch stepped back before he did something as reckless as kissing him. Maybe it was better that he avoided touching him, Stitch decided. Just in case.  
“Just something I’ve been looking for,” he said with a quick grin, turning to his record player and laying the vinyl down carefully. He knew exactly why those thugs had singled out Pete as a target, and this was the best way he could think of to let him know that it would be alright. At least, he hoped it would.  
A little scratchy from disuse, the needle settled into its groove and the song began to play. Stitch watched Pete’s face closely as the iconic guitar riff rang out into the shop.  
 _You’ve got your mother in a whirl, she doesn’t know if you’re a boy or a girl…_  
For a single terrifying moment confusion creased Pete’s forehead, and Stitch wondered if he’d made a mistake, if the younger man didn’t understand what Stitch was trying to say. But then his expression cleared, and it was like a rainbow appearing on an overcast day. His eyes lit up with excitement and joy, and when he met Stitch’s gaze it was like he’d just discovered something magical.  
“Who’s this?” he asked, beaming.  
“David Bowie,” said Stitch, smiling despite himself at the sheer elation in the younger man’s eyes. Pete began to dance, limbs flailing all over the place, and laughter bubbled from Stitch’s chest in a way it hadn’t for months. The younger man was so lost in the music, and for once Stitch was certain he’d done something right. This song was exactly what he’d needed to hear; that it was alright to be gay, or bi, or pan, or whatever Pete was. It was alright to look like a guy, like a girl, like both or neither or any combination of the two. Be whoever you want to be, just keep on moving, keep on dancing. It’ll all work out alright.  
“This is genius,” declared Pete, slowing down and staring at Stitch. “How come I’ve never heard you playing this?”  
Stitch shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it.  
“Too personal?” he suggested, though he accompanied the words with a noncommittal shake of his head to illustrate that, really, he hadn’t realised he’d never played the album. Pete tilted his head with a smirk, humming along to the lyrics.  
“You like me, and I like it all,” he said quietly, and Stitch abruptly realised what he’d just revealed. So now Pete knew that he was definitely not straight, which was… a development. Stitch was in no mood to push it further. He was mixed up enough as it was. It was just nice to know that, at least, was out in the open.  
“You’ll like this,” he said abruptly, trying to change the subject. Rummaging briefly in an old cardboard box he found what he was looking for and held out the album. Pete looked sceptical, and a little afraid.  
“How much is it?” he asked shyly. “Only, those guys took my money. So I don’t really-”  
“It’s yours.”  
Hesitantly, like he was afraid it was a trick, Pete took the record.  
“Ziggy Stardust?” he read, confused. “I thought you were giving me David Bowie. What’s this?”  
Stitch laughed.  
“It is David Bowie. It’s… look, just listen to it. Rock and Roll Suicide is a work of art by itself. And let me know what you think, will you?”  
He gestured to the record player, where the song was coming to an end.  
“You can have this one as well, if you want.”  
Pete made a small, choked noise, pulling Stitch into an unexpected hug. He clung to him tightly, pressing his face into the taller man’s shoulder. Stitch carefully wrapped his arms around him, feeling the younger man’s slim frame trembling slightly. He was struck by how perfectly they fitted against each other, and when he ran gentle fingers through Pete’s hair he felt the smaller man practically melt against him. They stood like that for several minutes, though it felt as though years had passed by the time Pete finally pulled away.  
“Thank you,” he said, flashing a sharp-toothed grin. His eyes were still a little red, but the shimmering blue was as dazzling as ever. Stitch shoved his hands into his pockets before he tried to do something stupid like kissing Pete, and smiled as the younger man continued.  
“Can I buy you a drink or something? Just as friends, say thanks, kind of thing.”  
Stitch’s smile broadened, hope blossoming in his chest. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could turn this ‘friendly’ drink into something more. He had an idea, and he was certain Pete, with his bizarre sense of humour, would love it.  
“Sounds great,” he said. “In fact, my mate Dave’s having a party this weekend. You should come. You’ll love his sister.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick context notes that didn't make sense in the fic itself:  
> \- Pete's 'proper job' is at a bakery, which he got fired from for eating the cakes  
> \- Pete discovered the magic of skinny jeans shortly after memorising Ziggy Stardust  
> \- Stitch's stall doesn't have a name at this point, but when Pete joins him working there it somehow ends up named 'Sweet Music'
> 
> If you've got a minute, drop me a comment or some feedback or something. It's all greatly appreciated.


End file.
